"When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. But then the features changed. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice.
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